


Cold Turkey

by bminor



Series: If I Wanted To [3]
Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 01:35:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9469619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bminor/pseuds/bminor
Summary: It turns out that staying Zen about Rebecca isn't as easy as Greg thought, especially when he has to spend a weekend away with classmates. He may need a different strategy for avoiding the temptation of a s***show.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for swearing, but the content itself is in no way explicit.
> 
> I basically wrote this because I miss Greg badly (as much as I'm still enjoying s2), and I felt like there would have been some really interesting character growth from Greg. In rewatching certain scenes to get details right, I now miss him more than ever - damn it, self!

He lay in bed, listening to the rain and wind pelt the hotel windows, and once again regretted saying yes to this trip. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he had to spend an entire weekend around his classmates, the promise of free time to enjoy the resort’s outdoor facilities had turned to shit as quickly as the weather had. It’s not like an over-chlorinated pool, a few frayed volleyball nets and a pétanque court (whatever the hell that was) were much of a pull for him even in good weather, but since getting sober, committing to business school and finally moving out of West Covina he was, you know…’trying’. But as he lay there, listening to obnoxious drunk people shouting at each other down the hall, trying felt really fucking terrible.

Hearing his sponsor’s voice in his head, he decided to go for a walk. Actually, if Barry were here right now he would have suggested journaling, optimistic as he was, but Greg had never used that particular strategy and wasn’t about to start now. The middle ground they had agreed upon was going for a walk and trying to get some perspective on his thoughts and emotions, although Barry was always quick to point out that writing things down could be SO HELPFUL if he just tried it. But he went to meetings, he talked regularly with his sponsor, and thankfully his inbuilt snark-mechanism made him skilled at turning down drinks even from pushy asshats at business school gatherings. He was trying, he just wasn’t trying journaling.

He threw on a hoody, slipped on some flip-flops (his classmates had insisted that they were standard attire for a beach resort, but he remained unconvinced), and slid his phone and the room key card into his pocket. As he headed down the hallway he subconsciously prayed to the Higher Power he still wasn’t sure he believed in that his path would be free from drunk people. He had made good progress with his sobriety (or so he had been told), but tonight he just didn’t have it in him to not be unnecessarily rude to the type of slurring, stumbling idiot he used to be.

Stepping in the lift he came face to face with himself in the shiny, metallic walls. _Christ, Serrano, you look like crap_. Dark circles hung heavy under his eyes. He tried tilting his head up in case they were just shadows thrown onto his face from the harsh halogen strip lights above. They weren’t. Ever since he had agreed to join this damn case competition team, his over-zealous, over-achieving classmates had insisted upon extra study groups, extra practice sessions, and worst of all, starting a private group chat on Facebook which sent irritating dings to his phone all. the livelong. day. At least it did until Edgar, the most bearable of his classmates, had given him a heads up that that was just a setting you could turn off. Greg hadn’t ever considered kissing a man before (if you don’t count WhiJo), but Edgar came close to being the lucky first. But the late nights of preparation and the stress of the competition the past couple of days had obviously taken their toll. _I guess this is what trying looks like. These must be the dark circles of a winner._

Stepping out into the ground floor foyer he was met by a cool breeze that swept in through the automatic doors that led through to the patio, currently being activated by a kid who had clearly discovered the feeling of power that comes with motion sensors and the lack of a vacation bedtime. In the past, a fair number of Greg’s drunken plans had involved installing complicated motion sensor set-ups in various places around the house and Home Base, to give the illusion of his omnipotence. Shockingly, nothing had ever come of these plans and he remained disappointingly mortal. He headed towards the doors and gave the kid a nod of approval as he passed him.

Unsurprisingly, the entire patio was empty. The wind battered the flimsy, summer umbrellas sticking awkwardly out of each of the tables, and he figured the area with an actual roof over it was probably the better option, even though he’d have to walk alongside the pool and through the rain to get to it. He put up his hood and managed to stay relatively dry, with the exception of his flip-flopped feet which were now wet and slippery. It would be a miracle if he managed to make it back to Atlanta without breaking his neck. _Greg Serrano, he died as he lived; hating fucking flip-flops_.

Now safely under shelter, he pulled out one of the chairs and checked it was dry before collapsing down into it. He wasn’t sure whether the drunken hollers had started to dissipate or whether the rush of wind in his ears and the slapping of the choppy waves against the tile of the swimming pool were just drowning them out. Either way, he was grateful for some peace. It occurred to him that going outside in the middle of a storm to find peace might be the type of potential metaphor Barry would call ‘worth reflecting on’, but tonight he felt like trying a little less. Being a mediocre recovering alcoholic was the best he could muster, and he felt like the dark patches under his eyes were justification enough for that. But while the exhaustion of the competition was an explanation that made enough sense, if he was brutally honest with himself (as Barry was always encouraging of him) he knew that supply chain problems weren’t what kept him from sleeping when he got home from all those extra study sessions.

He pulled out his phone, and his fingers went on autopilot, opening Instagram and starting to type her username into the search box. Her profile popped up in the suggestions as soon as he hit R, and he tapped on it, hating himself slightly but consoling himself that at least he hadn’t added a shortcut to her profile on his home screen. _Sure, and the fact that you don’t know how to do that totally doesn’t make a difference_. For the fourth time today he was face-to-face with a grid of images that made him feel a little sick. All of them featured Rebecca and Josh’s over-emphasised smiles, with numerous hashtags underneath each caption. A photo of them getting boba, a photo of them changing their relationship statuses at the same time ( _ugh_ ), and the one that stung the most - a photo of them down by the water. He didn’t know why that one bothered him so much… except he definitely did know why.

A vivid memory of her conjured itself in his mind against his will. Red polo shirt, black shorts, white calf-length socks. The sound of water spilling softly out of the fountain, and an obnoxiously big moon shimmering on the water like a damn episode of The OC _(…that was a current pop culture reference, right?_ ). The person he was that night as she sat inches away from him… he tried to summon that person. The guy who was Zen, and accepting of how things had turned out, and was able to be fine as long as she was happy with Chan. At this point he’d even settle for being the guy at the airport who badly wanted to stay for her, but was firm in the knowledge that they could only be a shitshow together… but a heart-stopping shitshow, and that was the part he was struggling with right now. Apparently being exhausted was affecting his ability to make good decisions and deal with crap. _Who knew?_

As he scrolled through the photos one-by-one, his own words echoed in his head.

_"Life went on without me, and you and Josh... you should be happy together. You’re happy right?”_

Her “um…yes” had been unconvincing, but that version of Greg had taken it as enough of a confirmation to move on. The tooth-filled smiles that stared back at him from each current shot were at least slightly more convincing, but this version of himself was still struggling to believe them.

Realising that Sitting-in-the-Middle-of-a-Fucking-Storm Greg wasn’t in a fit state to be in charge, he chose to hand the reigns over to Airport Greg.

“ _Life doesn’t happen, you make decisions. I’m deciding to move forward with my life._ ”

Closing the app, he took a deep breath and tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach as he hovered his finger over the icon and pressed on it until a small ‘x’ appeared in the corner.

_"Of course I love you.”_

And in a split second, he did it. The other apps on the screen moved one to the left to fill the gap that had been created by Airport Greg’s resolve. He let out a heavy breath and felt a little lighter. It was weirdly a relief to know he couldn’t keep torturing himself with overly-filtered cubes anymore. He hadn’t even signed up for Instagram until she’d moved to West Covina and he slowly found himself kinda wanting to know what she was doing. The strangest mindfuck of all was that it hadn’t been that long ago that snarky, Bartender Greg had been giving her a hard time about her obsessive, online stalking of Chan. He even teased her that going cold turkey and deleting all the apps was the only way to detox. So easy to give the advice, and yet it had taken him months of masochism to actually take it.

But life’s funny like that. _Not haha funny… sad funny._

 

 


End file.
